by Bob Burke
As the door closed behind him I sank back down into my chair and exhaled loudly. My client was now my landlord. He was missing something that he wanted to get back badly. He wanted little or no involvement with the law and, for reasons known only to himself, he had chosen me rather than any of the other detectives operating in town to do the recovery. Sometimes I just got all the breaks.
‘Oh Harry, Harry, Harry,’ I breathed. ‘What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now?’
2
Come Blow Your Horn
If television is to be believed, we detectives have contacts everywhere. All it takes is a quick phone call to Izzy or Sammy or Buddy and, hey presto, there it is–information at your fingertips. Barmen, bouncers, paperboys, waitresses; you name them, your average detective has them in his little black book. They have their ears to the ground and are always willing to give exactly the information you’re looking for exactly when you need it, in return for a small fee.
Wrong!
Forget what you see on TV. Most detectives I know, myself included, can muster up one informant if we’re really lucky; usually unreliable, rarely cheap and never around when you want them. My particular source of ‘useful’ information was a lazy former shepherd. He had got himself into a spot of bother when–after falling asleep on the job one day–his flock had disappeared. Blacklisted and unable to hold down any other kind of agricultural employment, he eked out a living playing the trumpet in some of the town’s cheaper bars. He usually then spent the money drinking in the same bars. When people talked of someone with his ear to the ground they meant literally in his case. He did get around, however, and if something was going on in town, there was always the remote possibility he might have heard about it. More than likely, however, he hadn’t.
When not performing, he was usually found in Stiltskin’s Diner nursing a cup of espresso and a hangover. Stiltskin’s was that kind of diner–great coffee, but the sort of food that was described in books about poor children in orphanages as ‘gruel’. Regardless of what you asked for it was inevitably served up as a grey lumpy mass–quite like the diner’s owner, in fact. Rumpelstiltskin was surly, rarely washed and had all the customer service skills of a constipated dragon. In his defence, however, he did serve the best coffee in Grimmtown.
Well, he had to have one redeeming feature.
I entered the diner and headed for the counter.
‘Blue here?’ I asked, trying to ignore the smell.
Rumpelstiltskin was cleaning a glass but from the state of the cloth he was using I suspected all he was doing was adding more dirt to an already filthy inside. He grunted in reply and nodded towards a booth at the back of the diner.
‘You are as gracious as you are informative,’ I said. ‘Any chance of a coffee, preferably in a clean mug?’ I looked pointedly at what he had in his hands.
Another grunt, which I assumed was an affirmative, but it was hard to tell.
I made my way to the back of the diner. It was a little early for the evening rush but some tables were already occupied. A few construction trolls were sharing a newspaper, or at least looking at the pictures. They also seemed to be the only ones eating what might have been loosely described as a hot meal. That was the thing about trolls: they were a chef’s delight. They ate anything thrown up in front of them (and my choice of phrase is deliberate), never complained and always came back for seconds. They single-handedly kept Stiltskin’s in business–and they had very big hands.
My contact was sitting in a darkened booth and barely acknowledged me as I sat down. He was still wearing that ridiculous bright blue smock and leggings that all our shepherds wore. The only sop to his status as a musician was a pair of sunglasses.
‘Blue,’ I greeted him. ‘How’re tricks?’
He grunted once and continued to nurse his coffee. It was obviously a day for grunts. Conversation wasn’t his strong point either. It seemed to be a feature of the people who frequented Stiltskin’s.
‘I’m looking for information,’ I said.
‘Ain’t you always,’ came the reply. He still hadn’t bothered to look up.
I pressed on regardless. ‘Rumour has it that one of our more upstanding citizens has lost something valuable. He seems to think I might be able to help him locate it. I figured if anyone had heard anything on the grapevine, it’d be you.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘That stalwart of Grimmtown high society, our very own Mr Aladdin,’ I replied.
At the mention of Aladdin’s name he suddenly became less disinterested. He sat upright so fast it was like someone had pumped 5,000 volts through him. Now I had his complete and undivided attention.
‘Well, well. So he’s come to you, eh? Must be scraping the bottom of a very deep and very wide barrel.’
I ignored the insult. ‘He obviously appreciates the skills that I provide…and I appreciate the skills that you provide,’ I said, slipping a twenty-dollar note across the table to him. There was a blur of movement and the note disappeared off the table and into his pocket. I’d have sworn his hands never moved.
He leaned forward so much our heads were almost touching. ‘Word on the street is he’s missin’ his lamp,’ he whispered. ‘Not good from his point of view.’
‘Yeah? Why’s that? What’s so special about it?’
Boy Blue leaned even closer, pushed his shades up onto his forehead and, for the first time since I had arrived, looked directly at me. His eyes were an intense blue–just like his ridiculous outfit.
‘Rumour has it that it’s a magic lamp and he somehow used it when he was younger to make himself very rich.
‘There he was, didn’t have two coins to rub together, working for peanuts in a laundry. Suddenly he was the talk of the town, appearing at all the best parties, escorting dames like Rapunzel; quite the overnight sensation.’
I groaned inwardly. Magic! I hated magic. As a working detective it’s bad enough running the risk of being beaten up or thrown into a river with concrete boots on, without having to live with the possibility of being changed into a dung beetle or having a plague of boils inflicted on you. If you think humans were disgusting covered with boils, imagine how I might look. No! Magic was to be avoided where possible and if it had to feature in a case, I wanted the Glenda the Good type–the type that had lots of slushy music and sparkly red slippers. With my luck, however, this was probably going to be the other type. I was already having premonitions of waking up with the head of a hippo and the body of a duck, going through the rest of my life only being able to grunt and quack.
‘Any idea if this magic lamp actually worked?’ I asked.
‘Nah. I don’t even know if it’s true. You know how these things are–he probably arrived in town in a stretch limo and with a pocketful of dough. Twenty years later, the rumour becomes the truth because it’s just so much more romantic.’ He laughed quietly. ‘One thing’s for sure though, he’s certainly not a man to be messed with. He has some interesting hired help.’
‘I know. I think I got off on the wrong trotter with one of them this morning.’
‘Big guy, scruffy white beard, perpetually angry and smells of cheese?’
‘Yeah, that’s the fellow; the inimitable Mr Gruff. We’ve had run-ins before.’
Boy Blue swallowed the dregs of his coffee and pushed the cup away. He belched loudly and with great satisfaction. ‘Amazin’ thing about this place: lousy food, great coffee. Didn’t think it was possible.’
‘Well think about it,’ I replied. ‘Stiltskin’s got to have something going for him–apart, of course, from his scintillating personality. But let’s get back to Aladdin.’ I tried to gather my thoughts. ‘Thing is, why would anyone want to steal this lamp, if the story about it is, in fact, just that–a story? Can’t see this particular gentleman being overly upset at the thought of having a family heirloom stolen–certainly not upset enough to hire me. It certainly didn’t look valuable from the photo he showed. Then again, what do I
know? I’m no antiques expert.’
Boy Blue’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker. ‘What if the story’s true? Think about it, what could someone do with a magic lamp?’
I thought about it. More to the point, I thought about what I could do with a magic lamp–and I didn’t have too fertile an imagination: big house, big car, gold-plated–maybe even pure gold–feeding trough. One rub and all my troubles would be over and, before you ask, it’s a convention in this town: you always rub any brassware you might find on the street, just like you always wave any ornate stick when you pick it up and always click your heels together when wearing any kind of sparkly red jewelled shoes. I may not like magic but that’s not to say there isn’t a lot of it about and people certainly know how to check for it.
It also hadn’t escaped my notice that if the wrong people got their hands on this particular source of untold wealth and power then it could create quite a lot of problems–assuming it was the genuine article. There were too many stories of people in Grimmtown who bought pulse vegetables from total strangers with the promise of great things happening to them. With the exception of a guy called Jack (another client whose story I must tell you someday), these great things didn’t ever amount to much more than a hill of beans, unless you happened really to like eating vegetables.
My chat with Boy Blue, however, gave me the distinct impression that we were dealing with the bona fide article and a client who wanted it back urgently–presumably before someone else could do what he did all those years ago. Even worse, maybe they had stolen it to use against him. Even worse again, he had hired me to get it back. Ah yes, things were definitely on the expected downward spiral. This was turning out to be a typical Harry Pigg case: much more trouble than it was worth, the potential for great harm being inflicted upon me, and probably impossible to get out of unless I actually found the artifact. I seem to attract these cases like a cowpat attracts flies.
I turned my attention back to Blue, who had now started on my coffee. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve any idea who might have taken this lamp?’
‘Take the phone-book; stick a pin anywhere in it. Chances are you’ve found a likely suspect.’ He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. ‘Any idea how it was stolen?’
‘I’m going out to Casa Aladdin tomorrow to have a look. It strikes me that it must have been a professional job. I imagine a man like him would have state-of-the-art security. Someone that rich with something he treasured that much is hardly likely to keep it under his bed beside the chamber pot.’
‘That narrows it down a little. Depending on how good his security system is you’re lookin’ for someone with enough dough to hire the right help, or the technical smarts to do the job themselves.’
I thought about it. ‘Maybe, but if they had those kind of resources, they probably wouldn’t need the lamp, would they?’
Blue sniggered. ‘Think about it. Ever seen a Bond movie? The kind of guys who would want to steal this are probably thinking about taking over the world, not how they might put the owner of a laundry out of business. We’re not talking washing powder and scruffy underwear here, we’re talking big weapons, thousands of thugs with large guns, huge secret headquarters hidden under water. Think big and you have your likely villains.’
This really wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I was hoping more for a pawnshop and an easy recovery not megalomania and superweapons. A small-time detective probably wouldn’t have much of a chance against that kind of opposition–particularly not this small-time detective.
It was time to go and detect. I slid out of the booth and put my overcoat back on. ‘Enjoy my coffee,’ I said to Boy Blue. ‘It’s on me.’
He didn’t acknowledge either my generosity or my departure. Typical informant!
I waved goodbye to Rumpelstiltskin on my way out and left the restaurant. Night was falling and, as I headed back to the office, I tried not to laugh out loud as Grimmtown’s bright young things made their appearance. I’m no connoisseur of fashion, but to my non-discerning eye this autumn’s look was clearly vampire. Lots of black: shoes, clothes, capes, lipstick, hair and eyes. In fact, if there hadn’t been any street lights, it would have been difficult just to see them. But, unfortunately, you could still hear them and, in keeping with the theme, there were lots of ‘velcomes’, ‘do you vant a drink’ and other stupid vampire sayings from cheap Hollywood B-movies. Nothing like an idiotic trend to sent the fashionistas flinging themselves like lemmings over the cliffs of good taste. Six months from now it would probably be the Snow White look and Dracula would be ‘so last year, darlink’.
Outside the Blarney Tone Irish bar, a small man in a bright green outfit was trying to entice customers inside to sample the evening’s entertainment. At the Pied Piper Lounge a group of idiots dressed as rats tried to provide an exciting alternative to the more discerning client. It was just as well it was getting dark. No self-respecting punter would enter either premises if they had seen it in daylight.
A number of fast-food sellers were hawking their less than appetising wares on street corners. Hungry though I was, I restrained myself–rat-on-a-stick with caramel sauce didn’t engage my senses as perhaps it should. It looked like another busy night in the town’s social calendar and one I was, in all honesty, looking forward to missing–not being the social type at all.
I walked the mean streets of Grimmtown back to my office–the further I walked, the meaner they got. I turned into an alleyway that I frequently used as a shortcut. As Grimmtown Corporation hadn’t seen fit to light up the alley, I made my way carefully along in the dark, trying not to kick over any trashcans (or any sleeping down-and-out ogres–they were never too happy when suddenly awoken).
As I stumbled along I became aware of a shuffling noise behind me. As a world-famous detective, I had developed a sense of knowing when I was being followed and now this spidey-sense was screaming ‘Danger, danger, Will Robinson!’ I spun around, trotters raised, ready to fight and, in the same fluid movement, flew backwards into the rubbish behind me when a large fist punched me powerfully in the stomach.
Gasping for breath, I shook old potato peelings and rotting fruit off my suit and slowly came to my feet, trying to see who had hit me. In the darkness I could barely make out my fists in front of me let alone see anything else. I heard the shuffling as my adversary moved towards me again. This time I was ready and aimed a powerful left hook-right hook combo (one of my favourites) at where I guessed my assailant to be. Both punches made satisfying contact with absolutely nothing and, as my momentum carried me forward, I received another blow to the stomach and a kick on the backside. The impact spun me around and I became reacquainted with the pile of rubbish that I had struggled up out of just a few seconds earlier.
This time I elected to stay down. I knew when I was beaten. The question was just how beaten was I going to become. I was also kind of worried. What kind of creature was I dealing with that could hit me so hard yet not be there when I hit back? Having been in more than one brawl in my time, I knew I wasn’t that slow so I didn’t think I could have missed my assailant.
I felt rather than saw the presence beside me as it bent down and grabbed me by the head with both hands. A voice whispered in my ear.
‘Stay away from things that don’t concern you,’ it said in an accent I couldn’t quite place but one that sounded vaguely familiar.
This just added to the mystery: a powerful creature that hit like a hammer, had a body that let punches pass through it, spoke like an extra out of a cheap ‘40s movie and had powerfully bad breath. I had to ask, of course.
‘What kind of things?’
‘Your new client and his missing ornament. It might be much healthier for you if you found another line of work in the short term.’
‘Says who?’ I was getting a little braver (and a lot more foolish).
‘Says someone who thinks that you mightn’t like hospital food and might prefer walking without the aid of hired help.’
I was
now even more confused, as well as smelling like a cheap fruit and vegetable store. How had someone found out about my new client so quickly and, more to the point, why didn’t they want me involved in the case? Before I could ask anything else the voice said, ‘Remember our little conversation, otherwise I’ll call again. Now it’s time for sleepies. Nighty night.’
There was a firm tap to the top of my head by something hard, a bright explosion of light and then darkness as what was left of my faculties took command and wisely elected to shut everything down. Unconscious, I slumped to the ground.
3
On the Case
Two things struck me almost simultaneously when I woke up: the sky was incredibly blue and the only part of me that didn’t actually hurt was my left elbow. My mind then went from neutral into first gear and started to tie the two thoughts together into a coherent concept. As I could see the sky, it meant I was lying on my back and the fact that I hurt all over was probably something to do with why I was lying on my back. Then the memory of the previous night’s encounter sauntered casually into my head to force my brain into a higher gear. I’d been beaten to a pulp by an invisible someone who I couldn’t touch, who had fists like mallets and knew about my current case. This was not a good start to the day and the prospect of another encounter with Gruff at my new client’s residence meant it was only going to get worse.
I groaned as I hauled myself to my feet, shedding bits of cardboard, rotten food and used magic beans. I smelled like a garbage cocktail and figured that my new employer wouldn’t take too kindly to my turning up at his residence in my present state. Like all good gumshoes, I always kept a spare suit at the office for those important occasions when I needed a one–like being roughed up, thrown in the river or being forced to spend the night sleeping in garbage. This was obviously one of those important occasions but after taking a step forward (very slowly, very carefully) and then collapsing back on the ground, I surmised I might be a while getting back to the office. I felt in my pockets for my cell phone, hoping to get Gloria to organise a cab. When I eventually found it, it was in a number of small and separate pieces. Obviously I wasn’t the only thing roughed up the previous night.